


Wake Thee, Heljä!

by WinsomeEarl



Category: Internet Comment Etiquette with Erik, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Possession, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinsomeEarl/pseuds/WinsomeEarl
Summary: Skjöldr's most recent possession, Erik thinks to himself, has been the worst by far.





	Wake Thee, Heljä!

Erik's body had been a conduit for possession from various strange forces for as long as he could remember, from dead Viking warlords, to shadowy puppet masters of the NWO, to spirits of chaos with an affinity for hydrogen peroxide and even Amazon CEO and multi-billionaire Jeep Bezoar disguised as an alien from the Planet Nibiru. Erik never really had any insight on why. Maybe his fontanel had never fully healed, leaving an especially thin spot in his skull. Maybe all that Salvia had left him permanently on a higher plane of consciousness, easily susceptible to the psychic manipulation of others. Maybe Uncle Dave was telling the truth when he said he'd used a metal detector and found an Illuminati antennae embedded in Erik's grey matter as a child.

Whatever it was, Erik had gotten better at handling it over time. He had started small. Meditating. Doing sudoku in the paper. Committing to getting at least 8 hours of sleep at night so all his thoughts weren't distracted mush in the morning. Laying off the habit of doing 8 hits of salvia a day in hopes of getting internet clout. He realized he didn't like getting blackout drunk, so he stopped. He got a few succulents and has committed to watering them the correct amount everyday. He adopts a puppy with white paws and a black nose. He meets Sam and eventually the two of them move in together and his thoughts in a day aren't just a constant stream of disjointed shower thoughts. As the years pass, the incidents occur less and less. Whenever they do, though, they're always in a moment of weakness. If he eats too much of an edible and spends all hours of the night falling deeper and deeper into a Qanon rabbit hole on Facebook. Making a pitstop at a MegaWalmart in the depths of Florida during a road trip and becoming entrapped for what seemed like eons in the labyrinthine aisles of the household cleaning department. The otherworldly fluorescent lights of the ceiling had stretched on an on in all directions, like lifeless white stars in the black expanse of space. 

When it happens this time, it comes out of nowhere. Him and Sam are at the house together 24/7, meaning he's not left alone with any unpleasant or intrusive thoughts for even a minute. They've decided to teach Narfi some new tricks, and Erik asks her for 'paw' and 'roll over' and 'speak' before giving her a treat and settling down the couch in front of the tv with some leftovers and a few bottles of Guinness. Sam is in the studio recording her podcast with her friend like she does every Monday, before releasing it on Tuesday. They must be on a roll, because she shoots him a text saying that they're recording a few episodes in advance, so she might be stuck in the studio later than usual. He's glad Narfi's gotten over her fear of rainstorms, as he hears an especially large thunderclap split the air outside and the rain hammers against the window like a barrage of arrows. He feels himself nodding off on the couch, Narfi curled up at his side, as the Ancient Aliens guy drones on about how the Easter Island heads are secretly radio transmitters shooting signals into space. He knows he probably shouldn't sleep so quickly after eating, but at this point he's too tired to get up. He drifts off to the sound of Sam's laughter piping up from the room down the hall, looking forward to tomorrow morning when he'll get to hear what it was she was laughing about. 

When Eric wakes up, it's not any outside interruption that stirs him. Instead, he's woken by the feeling of his own body moving, turning and lifting by its own volition beneath his head. He feels his body lumbering to stand on its own, but the weight of his new body is something his internal guest must not be used to, and he stumbles. His knee bangs heavily into the coffee table, managing to knock it over and sending multiple empty beer bottles to shatter on the floor, the sound of it near deafening in the silence of the house. The only other sound is the low hum of the tv, the low light of which contorts into images of vast wooden ships rowed by thousands of men, a tree which grows from heaven, through Earth, into Hell, and a barbarian in the darkness of a humid cave, cleaving the head of a beast, ugly as a man's sins, off its shoulders in a steaming spray of red. Erik gradually becomes aware of the other low, insistent murmur that's been streaming into his ears, and realizes that Narfi's been growling at him like she's never seen him in her life. He feels his head being wrenched to turn and look at her, and the moment their eyes meet, she's barking like he's an intruder in his own home. Erik feels the voice seeping from his throat before he hears it, forcing his vocal chords to contract around odd syllables of a dead language he doesn't understand.

"Á Sér Sitja, Hundr," he hears himself speaking in a voice that feels like gravel in his throat, and suddenly he's terrifyingly, unfortunately aware of what's happening.

'Not this again,' He thinks to himself, and hears someone else laugh in response inside his head.

"You can't keep me out forever boy," Skjöldr taunts him with his own voice. "You might have been free of me for a while, but I've got you now,"

'Are you just here to tell me some scary stories again?' Erik thinks to himself, unable to voice his question aloud.

Skjöldr merely laughs again, out loud this time, a cruel sound which tells Erik that his guest's enjoyment this evening will be one sided. Erik feels his body shambling forward once more, and a shard from one of the broken bottles slices through both his sock and his skin. Just as the glass bites into the meat of his foot, he hears a choir of a thousand voices, singing high praises with the sound of his own blood in his ears: 

SKJÖLDR, SON OF ODIN, FIRST KING OF DENMARK, WHO BEDDED THE DAUGHTER OF KING HRETHEL, BETROTHED OF ECGÞEOW, AND SIRED THE BASTARD BEOWULF. WHO BEDDED HELJA, SPAWN OF CAIN, AND SIRED THE DEMON GRENDEL. WHO WAS BANISHED FROM VALHALLA TO ROAM THE RED WASTELANDS THAT LIE BETWEEN MIDGARD AND HEL. SCYLD THE SHEAF-CHILD FROM SCOURGING FOEMEN, FROM RAIDERS A-MANY THEIR MEAD-HALLS WRESTED. HE LIVES TO BE FEARED, THE FIRST HAS A WAIF, PUNY AND FRAIL HE WAS FOUND ON THE SHORE. HE GREW TO BE GREAT, AND WAS GIRT WITH POWER TILL THE BORDER-TRIBES ALL OBEYED HIS RULE, AND SEA-FOLK HARDY THAT SIT BY THE WHALE-PATH GAVE HIM TRIBUTE, A GOOD KING WAS HE!

Skjöldr pilots his body with some difficulty into the kitchen, and picks a chef's knife up from the rack. Narfi has followed them into the kitchen at this point, still barking and snarling, and Eric feels something drop in his stomach.

"Erik?" calls a startled voice from the doorway, and Erik can feel Skjöldr's surprise as his head twists around to view the source of the voice.

It's Sam, standing in the kitchen doorway. The way she's squinting even in the low light hints that she just woke up from a deep sleep, likely from the crash of the coffee table and the fuss Narfi was making. The black and white dog is now cowering behind her legs, her bravery having finally given way to fear.

"Erik, what was that noise?" Sam is asking blearily, her eyes scanning down Eric's body before turning to the whimpering dog behind her. "What..."

Ignoring his internal plight, Eric's body turns and starts heading away. Eric soon realizes he's walking in the direction of the front door. Erik hopes, prays, that Sam will be able to tell something is amiss. Even as he tries desperately to move even an inch, to speak with his own voice, he knows his attempts will be in vain as they always are. In the past, he would submit quickly, knowing his resistance was pointless, but something is off this time. Usually Skjöldr sends his consciousness away to the void before slipping into his skin, but he's decided to let him stay this time. All Erik can do is feverishly hope that Skjöldr will do something that will set off the alarm bells in Sam's head. Anything. She has to realize this isn't him, doesn't she? That this is just another instance of his body being used as a puppet? 

There has to be something different about the look in his eyes, his gait, the fact that his sock is quickly becoming soaked through as he walks through the darkened house trailing blood and holding the largest knife they own. When his fingers close around the door handle, he prays that Sam will do something to make him stay inside. He desperately doesn't want to go out right now. He's freezing, exhausted, and there's an ache shooting up his spine from his posture on the couch, not to mention the open wound on his foot and the peal of thunder rolling through the walls. He doesn't know what she could do against the intruder inside him that's wielding a knife and doesn't seem to be deterred by his pain, but he hopes against hope.

"Erik, are you alright?" Sam asks from behind him, and he feels an ounce of hope kindling in his gut despite himself. When Skjöldr turns around to look at her, Erik can see that her eyebrows are knitted in worry. Erik can practically feel the cogs turning in Skjöldr's mind, like dark mead being poured from one cup to the next, as he considers what to do next. 

"Aye, lass, I'll join you in bed soon enough," Skjöldr assures her, smiling with Erik's mouth in a way he never would, "I merely need to take a piss, and then I'll return."

Sam's eyes are wide, but not necessarily scared, Erik notices with some confusion. She blinks at him and stares.

"Ok," she chimes eventually with a resigned shrug.

'She must think I'm doing a bit,' Erik realizes as dread begins to pool into his stomach. His dread deepens further when he realizes that Sam doesn't even know this happens to him sometimes, doesn't know that hostile forces sometimes like to use him as a meat puppet for nothing more than their own sick amusement. How could she when he had never told her? 'This is the last time Sam's going to see me alive, and she thinks I'm doing a lame bit for a video.'

Erik wants to say goodbye, or I'm sorry, or anything really, but Skjöldr is already opening the door and walking outside and he can't. Sam will probably go back to bed and won't realize he's actually gone until the morning. Erik hopes she and Narfi get a good night's sleep.

That night, Erik walks. He walks in the rain, as the wind whips like lashes against his skin. He walks and walks and walks without end. Once they're far enough away from the city, Skjöldr tilts his head up to look through the storm clouds at the vast expanse of stars, and Erik can tell he's scanning the sky trying to navigate where he is and where he's going. Erik's sleep addled brain feels a fleeting moment of triumph as he thinks, 'He won't be able to recognize the stars here, he comes from the opposite side of the planet!' before remembering dourly that the Earth spins. Looking up into the blackness of space, Erik is filled with strange conclusions he's never come to before. Suddenly, he's hyper aware of the cardinal directions and his position on the face of the Earth. He's intimately familiar with the stars, their names and the constellation they inhabit. There's Nidhogg, the serpent who gnaws at the roots of the world tree, Dáinn and his brothers Dvalinn, Duneyrr and Duraþrór, four stags who feast on the branches of Yggdrasill, and the eyes of Þjazi, which were gouged out by Odin in an act of vengeance and thrown to rest among the heavens. 

To Erik it's dizzying, to assign an identity to each and every one of the infinite stars, but Skjöldr seems to gather whatever information he needed quickly, and then they're off again. By the time they reach the port, the soles of Erik's feet are stinging from the pavement. His nerves are fried both from fearing he's going to he spotted walking around barefoot with a knife, and also from wondering why it hasn't happened yet. Every time he walked by a camera on a store front or traffic light, he was convinced it was following him. Walking down the wooden pier by a line of white boats, Skjöldr stops so suddenly that Erik almost looses his balance. He forces Erik to take one lengthy inhale after another, straining his lungs almost painfully against the confines of his ribs. 

'What is it now?' Erik whines from the inside of his skull. The air here was putrid so close to the sea.

"I smell ale." Skjöldr declares aloud, and turns to stare gravely at the sailboat they've paused in front of.

Before Erik knows what's happening, he's bent down to grip the rope anchoring the boat to the deck and begins reeling it in until it's hull bumps loudly against the pier. Then he's hoisting one leg up onto the deck, grabbing onto the metal railing with both hands and flinging his other leg over the rail to land on the deck with a loud thump. Though he wasn't able to land on his feet, it's still an act of agility he didn't know he was quite capable of. While he's still on the ground, one hand comes up to paw roughly at his soft stomach, and Erik can feel Skjöldr internally cursing him for his lack of exercise. Nevertheless, he brings himself to stand and kicks in the door of the sailboat in one swift motion.

"That door opens outward, man!" he hears a distressed voice piping up from inside.

Erik steps down into the darkened hull, his hair and clothes clinging to his skin from the rain. In the low light from the windows, he can see a skinny white man (more of a boy, really, Skjöldr surmises) slouched down on a cushion with a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand. Eric notices that there are several empty bottles of varying sizes littering the floor, and that the boy is watching him with unalloyed fear carved into his features. In the back of his mind, Erik can feel Skjöldr weighing two very distinct options in his head before making up his mind and taking the bottle easily from the boy's hands. He brings it up to his lips and downs the remaining contents, which are not negligible, in one go. Erik feels the alcohol trailing like fire down his throat and blooming in his stomach. 

Once the bottle is empty, Skjöldr shatters it against the wall of the ship with a belch, and the boy on the couch flinches in spite of himself. He grabs the boy by the collar of his polo shirt and pulls him bodily up the flight of steps. As they reach the top, just as the boy is telling him something about how his father has money if he wants it, Skjöldr traps him in a chokehold, lifting him off the deck in the process. He scratches desperately at Erik's arm, hard enough that Erik prays Skjöldr will let the guy go, as his forearm is quickly becoming covered in welts. Even as the boy's heels make painful contact with Erik's knee and shin, Skjöldr refuses to loosen his grip, and the boy in his arms eventually begins to shake from lack of oxygen. To make this incident the perfect storm, the man's nose begins to bleed, dripping onto Erik's arms and pooling on the ground, and Erik can feel Skjöldr resisting the urge to bite the man's ear as he struggles in his grip. Finally, fortunately, the man goes completely slack. Skjöldr lets him go and he flops bonelessly onto the deck. At this point, Erik can feel Skjöldr staring at the man's unconscious body longer than is strictly appropriate.

'Skjöldr, ew!' Erik pipes up with disgust.

"I'm not going to do anything!" Skjöldr says defensively, as he bends to hoist the boy up from under his arms and tosses him head first into the marina below with a splash. Skjöldr wipes his hands together, pleased with a job well done.

"I haven't had a body in a long time, boy," Skjöldr says darkly as the two of them watch the body bob lightly, face down in the water, buffeted towards the shore by the incoming current. Erik wonders if he's dead already, or just going to die very soon. Skjöldr has already moved on, stooping to retrieve an empty bottle of Skyy on the deck, smashing it once more against the railing, and then using the sharp edge to saw away at the rope connecting them to the dock.

'You know you still have my kitchen knife, right?' Erik asks, as Skjöldr shoves the boat away from the dock with one foot.

Skjöldr looks from his left hand to his right where he notices, with surprise, that he's still holding the knife.

"Alas, I do!" Skjöldr crows, before using the knife to start sawing Erik's waterlogged shirt off.

'What the hell, man, I really liked that shirt!' Erik protests, 'Don't you know what buttons are?'

"Of course I know what buttons are," Skjöldr gruffs, tearing the remains of the garment into strips, "I also know that infernal noise has been bothering me for the past 4 hours."

With that, Erik notices for the first time that his stomach has been growling, and the bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach certainly didn't help any. By this point, the wind has picked up, filling the sails and propelling them out towards the open sea.

As he slides down to sit on the floor of the deck, tying the remnants of Erik's shirt into an intricate net with his hands, Skjöldr takes a look around and sniffs.

"By the way, where are the oars on this thing?"

Erik can't bring himself to answer this time.

Erik had never really contemplated how lengthy sea travel could be. He never had reason to. He's seen the sun rise and fall, and the moon cycle through new, crescent, gibbous and full more times than he can count. If Erik were on his own, he would have taken the time to tally each rising of the sun, just to have some concept of how long he's been out. Skjöldr has instead inscribed a sigil on the side of the boat in fishes' blood; lying down on the deck, with blood on his fingers and under his nails, Skjöldr traces the name īsig into the boat's white hull. Seeing it's name, Erik is overcome with the memory of a ship, its hull shining, glimmering like ice, golden oak mainstaffs rising up into the heavens, cloud-white sails billowing overhead and a sunken corpse laying in it's shade, jewels and embossed ornaments from foreign shores gilding its skin, surrounded by mighty weapons of war, clothed in furs, adorned with faded blue sigils, silver beard still curling into braids from his chin, thin lips drawn back to reveal chiseled, greying teeth. 

Erik's skin wasn't made for this weather. Out on the open ocean, overcast skies are far and few between, and his tormented skin has gone through several shades of peach, pink and red, blistering and peeling for days before settling into a leathery brown. Erik wishes Skjöldr would let him spend the more scalding hours of the day on the inside of the ship, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by the ruined state of his skin. Instead, he chooses to spend the day on the deck. He drags the net he made from Erik's shirt up out of the sea at regular intervals, and eats whatever living thing he finds inside. Erik is at first distressed when it came to consuming all manners of ocean life forms, things he had never seen before with slimy skin, long thin bodies, human teeth, tentacles, spines, whip-like tails, and skin which seems to cave in on itself once it reaches the surface. The first few times he tries, he ends up losing his lunch into the ocean, and he hurls up wave after wave of bile, he can feel Skjöldr internally cursing him for his weakness of character. In the end, whatever comes up goes into Erik's gullet to his dismay, and he bites into the squirming flank of each creature, tearing off whatever he can, feeling blood and fresh water trail down his throat as their lifeforce drains into his. 

Once Erik bites the tentacle off of a living octopus, only for it's suckers to begin digging painfully into his skin and its sharp beak to bite into his lip, at which point Skjöldr thankfully throws it back into the ocean. In his throat, the single tentacle fights as it goes down, slipping dangerously for a moment into his windpipe, before wriggling and latching on to the walls of his esophagus and finally succumbing to the acid in his stomach. Erik remembers watching a documentary with Sam about the intelligence of cephalopods, which have a separate brain for each of their legs, and considers going back to being a soyboy once this entire ordeal is through. Erik finds all manner of things that he would never expect hidden in the bellies of the fish he consumes. Shells from oysters, soda can tabs, bits of sea glass, a shotgun shell, international coins, mismatched earrings, various fishhooks, a shining pearl, and even what looks like an engagement ring. Skjöldr holds each trinket up to his eyes, closing one and then the next, to examine them like rare jewels. Erik doesn't want to disappoint him by telling him that for the most part they're just sea junk. 

Every so often, as the ship drifts closer to land, gulls fly over the ship and Skjöldr invariably tries to catch one as a special treat. The closest he ever gets is when he leaves a pile of fish eyes and gizzards in a pile on the deck as a form of bait, and waits for one bird to touch down before trying to bash it's head in with an empty bottle. Even though he's never successful, the patterned white and brown feathers of the gulls still fall languidly down to the deck, and Skjöldr braids these and his many trinkets into Erik's ever lengthening beard. When there's nothing to do, he drinks from one of the many bottles of alcohol stowed away under the interior benches, and lays down on the deck to watch the clouds with one arm under his head as a pillow. At night, he looks often up at the stars to mentally catalogue their path every step of the way and readjust the sails, and each time, Erik is just as awed as he was the first. Here, so far from civilization, the stars shine like white diamonds strewn across an ocean of black velvet, an infinitely repeating reflection of the endless sea which blankets the Earth. For not the first time in his life, Erik feels like a flea, clinging hopelessly to the massive black hide of creation. Skjöldr never lets him dwell on those moods for long, however, choosing instead to drown them in booze. 

Due to the drinking, or the oppressive heat, or his dour mood, Erik's dreams during this span are the oddest in his life. In them, he is not limited to the two dimensions of sight and sound like his usual trips into his subconscious. Instead, he can feel his body as if it were tumbling through space and moving underneath him, his sense of taste and smell as vivid as waking life, he can feel the movement of his limbs, and sensation on every inch of his skin, both hot and cold, comfort and pain. In his dreams, he sees a man with one eye holding him up, his body small and frail, and placing him into a boat amongst the reeds. He feels the rocking of the vessel as it follows the river's current, along with the sun on his face, and the chill of the water below. He sees a black shape approaching from underneath the waves, snaking back and forth in the blue water. It hovers directly underneath his boat before if finally shows itself. At first, it only ventures out it's head, though only the top, and it's tendrils of greasy dark hair, and glassy black eyes can be seen, like two pools of ink. 

It blinks at him for a moment, and he isn't scared. He just holds onto the edge of the boat with two pudgy, pink hands and blinks back at it, face hiding behind the edge except for his eyes. She makes a noise like the croaking of a toad, low in her throat, and then the rest of her is rising out of the water. At this point, Erik can't seem to get a good look at her, but he doesn't mind. He feels two wet hands coming down to grip his sides, and feels the moisture running down his bare skin in rivulets. He's brought to rest against something wet, yet soft and warm, and he huddles himself further into the nest of black hair. He feels two wet fingers playing at his lips, guiding him to something, and soon he's latched on, as warmth seeps into his gut. All that he feels is contentment, and all that he sees is black, unable to tell if its the black of her fur, or the blackness that lies on the inside of his own skull. 

In the dream that follows, he can feel the itch of hair as it just begins to grow on his chest, and the singe of the fire on his face. He sees the woman in front of him, his mother, his subconscious tells him, though she doesn't look quite right to him somehow. Maybe it's the black shadows that are carving her face in two. Though he sees her speaking, he can't make out exactly what she's saying, though he can tell by the feeling in his gut that she's telling him a frightening story before bedtime to test his courage. He feels both too hot and too cold under the bearskin he's wrapped in, sitting on the stone floor as the light of the fire casts strange shadows onto the walls. Her image is overtaken suddenly by the stage of his mind, upon which he sees the death of the All-Father, a man bound to the floor of a cave beneath a snake which drips venom ceaselessly into his eyes, a man who's arm is sacrificed to the mouth of a monstrous wolf, and the whole of the world sinking into the sea. 

He dreams of a young woman named Alfhild, who's face and brown hair remind him of Sam. He dreams of a boy named Gram, who grows to be head of the Danish royal line. He dreams of the bastard son of a 16th century Danish prince, whose mistress was uprooted when her husband decided to move the family to the Danish West Indies, their family again moving, much later on, to the states. Thinking of Sam, he hopes she's taking care of his plants; remembering to put them under their grow lights, watering and fertilizing them once a month. Mostly, he hopes Sam isn't worrying too much about him. Mostly, he tries not to think about home at all.

It's hard sometimes, and he often finds himself waking from dreams in which he's looking out over the bough of the ship at a herd of seals diving beneath the waves, only for one to leap onto the deck and shake off its coat, revealing itself not to be a seal at all, but instead a small black dog with white paws. 

Sometimes Erik awakes to find that his eyes are already open, and wonders if Skjöldr can even sleep at all, or if he's forced to lay awake in his slumbering body. There are times when Skjöldr forgets to pull up the net at all, forcing Erik to go to bed hungry. In moments like these, Erik finds himself grateful that he had never bothered to go on that diet while he was back at home. After months at sea, he's only now beginning to notice the bones of his shoulders pushing up like knots under his weathered skin. 

There are empty bottles arranged in rows on the deck, which catch fresh water whenever it rains. Erik knows they'd probably be able to catch more if only they cracked those thin bottle necks off so the rain could fall in more easily, but Skjöldr doesn't bother to listen to his subconscious suggestions. It's obvious in every element of their trip that he doesn't have Erik's comfort in mind, and likely wouldn't even be bothering to feed him at all if it wasn't absolutely necessary to keep his host body alive.

Erik is asleep on the deck when a strange noise seeps into his ears. In his dream, he sits in an endless hall thatched with golden shields. He hears a cry echoing around him, through the columned hall and out across the valley, and the men of the hall, noble men in boots and furs, pause in their revelry and clamor to view its source. Gullinkambi has begun to crow. As the noise rebounds across the valley and begins to die, Fjalar's cry can be heard like an echo. Erik wakes before the third call. The sight which greets his eyes is the endless blue expanse of the sky, across which glide three gulls, the air full of their cries. Erik feels his body heaving itself up with a start, a way which Skjoldr has never woken him before. 

Off in the distance, over the bough of the ship, he sees land.


End file.
